Where Angels Tread
by ArwenKalina
Summary: Sequel to Anywhere You Go. Christine and Erik have sailed away, and Raoul is left to his madness, love for Christine and guilt over Giselle's death. Is there forgiveness for him in another woman's arms? And if there can be forgiveness, can there be love?
1. Prologue: Twisted

**Prologue: Twisted**

The waxy scent of the candles mixed with the acrid scent of smoke from one that had spontaneously gutted out made Raoul feel instantly nauseous.

He hated the chapel. If it had not been Christine's one solace, if it had not been a part of her life long before he had reentered the scene, he would have denied her access to it, had it barred shut, torn down. He knew that it was here that the 'Angel of Music' had first visited her, and he knew that it was not only to light a candle for her father that she knelt here.

It was to seek the presence of her Angel, to feel comfort from him rather than fear, to be warmed by his presence rather than oppressed by it. She wanted to forget the demon, forget the man, and know only the angel.

It was here that Christine became a child again.

It was here that she became innocent again.

She was kneeling on the stone floor now, her pale skin illuminated by the flickering candles. She leaned forward to light one, and Raoul overheard her soft whispers as she uttered a prayer in French.

"Gardez Dieu de coffre-fort d'Erik…" she murmured as the flame took to the candlewick, and Raoul felt jealousy begin a slow burning within his soul.

She heard the gentle tread of his footsteps behind her and she turned her head, her shoulders stiffening in surprise. Raoul had never come here before. This was her sanctuary, her private place.

She felt a moment of anger that he would trespass so without even asking if she might prefer to be left alone.

This was where she and her Angel met, where she could commune with her father.

"Raoul, I'm frightened." The confession caught her by surprise, but the words rushed from her mouth on a breath of nervous air, her blue eyes catching his hazel ones. "Don't make me do this." She looked up at him, her eyes suddenly pleading. "It scares me! Don't put me through this ordeal by fire."

She stood suddenly, her hands at her mouth as she turned away from him. "He'll take me. I know." Christine faced Raoul, certainty in her eyes. "We'll be parted forever. He won't let me go. What I once used to dream…I now dread. If he finds me, it won't ever end!"

She turned away to sit at the window, her hands pressed into her skirts. _I can't bear to be his murderer. I have done so much against him already. How can I do this as well? I can't do this. I can't._

"And he'll always be there singing songs in my head—he'll always be there singing songs in my head."

Raoul sat down quickly with her, grasping both her hands in his. "You said yourself, he was nothing but a man."

Christine looked away. _It would be better if he were a ghost. Men can die. Ghosts cannot. If he were a ghost, he would be safe already._

"Yet while he lives, he will haunt us 'til we're dead."

There was truth behind his words. As long as the Phantom reigned, Christine and Raoul could never escape. He would find them. Somehow he would find them. He would never let Christine go so easily.

She bit her lip and tasted blood. "Twisted every way, what answer can I give? Am I to risk my life to win the chance to live? Can I betray the man who once inspired my voice? Do I become his prey?"

Raoul saw the argument in her eyes and the fire of jealousy burned more hotly. What claim did this man have on her?

"Do I have any choice? He kills without a thought; he murders all that's good—I know I can't refuse, and yet…I wish I could."

Her eyes, glistening with tears, turned back to meet Raoul's gaze. There was fear there, and resignation to fate—both the Phantom's and hers.

"Oh God, if I agree, what horrors wait for me in this—the Phantom's opera?"

_This is why he must die. She loves him, but if he is dead, she can love only you._

"Christine, Christine, don't think that I don't care…but every hope, and every prayer rests on you now!"

The terrible weight of what she was to do rested fully on Christine's shoulders, and she collapsed into Raoul's waiting arms, tears streaming down her face.

The candle that she had lit for Erik flickered, and gutted out.


	2. Never Say Goodbye

**A/N:**

**Here is the first chapter. **

**Enjoy and review!**

**-**

**Chapter 1: Never Say Goodbye **

**_Paris, 1871 _**

**_One year after Giselle's death, and Erik and Christine's reconciliation_**

_How many times must I let her go?_

The letter—crisp, pale pink stationary extracted from a milky-white linen envelope—lay on Raoul's writing desk.

It smelt of lavender.

It had been sitting there for over an hour, unread. The fine script beckoned to him, called him to see what Christine had written. He resisted it with curses and brandy, as he had resisted the picture of her that danced incessantly before his eyes, the sound of her voice that echoed always in his mind, the dreams of her that plagued his sleep at night.

The curses did little, and the brandy only worsened his mood. When a manservant entered to remind him of the time, and that luncheon would be served in the garden with the Comte de Chagny, Raoul threw the heavy crystal decanter at the man, cursed first at the fact that it missed him by a good seven or eight inches, second at the damage it had done to the section of leather-bound books that it had hit, and finally, at the loss of so much good liquor.

The servant left in a hurry, without bothering to inform Raoul as to which part of the extensive gardens the luncheon was to be served in.

As if he retained any appetite for food. Alcohol served him much better.

He gave up the battle at last and sat at his desk to read the letter that still lay there, as patiently as paper and ink is wont to do, much more patiently than those who write the letters would ever deign to wait.

_Dear Raoul,_ it began, and he winced. After all that had passed between them, how could she call him such?

He imagined her at her table, perhaps in her dressing room—no, no, that was not at all a good idea. The image of her in her dressing room conjured up pictures of her hair loose and falling wildly about her shoulders, her ankles and a good deal of her legs bare, her waist defined by the imprisonment of whalebone and laces, her arms bared well past the shoulder, the corset pushing up her small breasts…

"Damn it!" He leapt up from the chair and grabbed his glass, reached for the decanter, stared at the dark stain on the wooden floor of his office, and threw the glass across the room as well.

_By the time you read this, I will have already set sail for wherever it is that I am going._

"You're leaving?" He spoke to the paper as though it were Christine herself, his voice suddenly forlorn and lost, like a child's. "You can't leave! We were to leave! Us! Together! Not with him! With him you could stay in Paris! You would not leave with me but you will leave with _him_?"

Raoul half expected a servant to tap on the door, to wonder what was causing such a ruckus, but they had grown accustomed to his rages.

There were whispers that the Viscomte de Chagny was mad. That he had been mad for a year, since Christine Couturier and her husband were reunited, and said their vows again in the same grand cathedral.

He laughed when he read these reports, for the newspapers were so few times correct that it was amusing when they spoke the truth.

_I do not know where it is, really, except that it is somewhere in Europe—Erik has made all the plans. I suppose that we may go to England, and he says that I must see Italy. I would like to see Sweden again, as well. I do not remember anything except France, for the most part, but I do remember the house by the sea, and I would like to visit it again._

"Why, Christine?" he whispered, fingers smudging the ink. "Why do you think that I want to know these things? Why do you tell me how happy you are? Why must you be happy when I am miserable, and dying of love for you?"

_Where we will finally settle, I do not know. Perhaps someplace in Europe, or perhaps we will go to America. Opera is becoming popular there, and no doubt there will be a way for Erik to support us with his compositions._

"No doubt."

_Wherever we go, I have made Erik promise me this, that when I die, he will bury me in the cemetery where my father is buried. Perhaps then you can visit my grave, and remember me as I was in happier times._

_Wherever life takes you, Raoul, if we do not speak again, know that the memories of what we shared will always be precious to me. You are in my thoughts and prayers always, and I wish you only happiness. _

_Forgive me any pain I caused you._

_When you think of me, as no doubt you will, think of your childhood sweetheart. Think of the picnics in the attic and the stories we read while Father played the violin. Think of the afternoon when my scarf flew into the sea and you rescued it. Think of only the happy times we shared, my dear friend, and I promise that I will think of them as well._

_Forever your loving friend, _

_Christine_

"That is all!" He slammed his hand down atop the letter, fingers tightening and scrunching the fine paper into a tight wad. "You ask me to remember you, think of all those lovely memories we made, and forgive you? _Forgive you_? You lied to me, Christine! You made promises that you could not keep! And I keep mine nonetheless, but what good will it ever do me? I love you, Christine, and I cannot have you, and now I will never see you again! God in Heaven, what have I done? _What have I done to deserve this_?"

He threw the crumpled letter into the fire. "What will you think of, sweet Christine, my loving _friend_? Will you think of me when you are with your Erik? No, you will not! You call yourself my _friend_? I do not want your friendship, Christine, I want your love!"

He sank down in the chair, his hands covering his face as he wept into them. She was leaving. By her letter, she had already left.

She was escaping. She had taken the route he had planned to go with her, but she had taken it with Erik, and had left him behind.

He could not stand at the dock and tell her goodbye, he could not watch the ship sail away and commit one last picture of her face to memory, a picture that was not stained with sorrow or tears, for those pictures were all that he could remember now.

For a year, he had seen every opera played at the Populaire as many times as each was performed, pretending for those hours that Christine was his, that he was the one who would bring her flowers and kisses and meet her in her rooms after the performance instead of the masked devil who had won her after all.

Pretense was all that was left to him, pretense and memories, imagination and dreams, and it would never be enough. It would never be Christine, and she was all that he wanted.

She was all that he would never have.

He was suddenly glad that he had not been at the docks to bid her farewell. To bid her farewell would have been to acknowledge an ending to their promise, to accept that Christine was moving on, starting a life without him.

He would never accept that.

The letter was reduced to ashes now, consumed by the licking flames.

Raoul's soul was slowly turning to ashes, the fire of hatred, jealousy and stubborn devotion burning at him.

Perhaps he could get on a ship, track her, find her, and bring her back with him.

That was foolishness. He could not get her back. He had tried far too many times already.

She would have to come back to him, and Raoul knew with a certainty that she never would.

A servant tapped at the door, said something about the Comte, and luncheon waiting on them both, but Raoul ignored it.

Philippe was a grown man. He could eat alone.


	3. Prima Ballerina

**A/N:**

**Sorry for the delay in updating, this story is moving more slowly than I had first anticipated. Feedback is important, so please review!**

**Enjoy.**

**-**

**Chapter 2: Prima Ballerina**

_Dearest Meg,_

_I wish that you could see how beautiful Italy is. I know you have never left France, and oh! Your artist's heart would be in awe of the splendor here, both natural and man-made, though I know you cannot paint or draw any more than I can. I will try to convince Erik to perhaps make you a sketch or a watercolor. I'm sure he won't object._

_The cathedrals here are grand, even more beautiful than those in Paris. I have gone to Mass every morning, and thanked God for my good fortune, that my and Erik's sufferings have at last come to an end. He, too, has been both penitent and thankful, and for that I offer praise as well, for I never thought Erik would find peace at Christ's feet. _

_In my happiness, it is easy to forget that there is one left behind (and you, dear friend, know of whom I speak) that has not found peace. The knowledge of his pain is the one mark on my joy, and I wonder…how is he? Have you seen him about the Opera? I know that you would notice if he were there. I dare not inquire too much, for fear of risking Erik's temper, so short where he is concerned. But I would like to know how he fares._

_I will write you again soon, Meg, and I hope that all is well. Do write back, and tell me all the goings-on in the Populaire. I miss it, though I am the happiest I have ever been. _

_All my love,_

_Christine_

_P.S. I will ask Erik about the painting tonight._

Meg laid the letter aside on her writing desk, and tried to staunch the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. Selfish as it was, she would have given anything to see Christine home again.

"I would rather see you again than all the cathedrals in the world, Christine." she whispered softly, tucking the letter away in a drawer. "And as for Raoul, I have as much hope of speaking to him as I do of painting a Da Vinci."

Her thoughts wandered to the handsome Viscomte, and they lingered.

_Christine, he's so handsome!_

How jealous she had been when the young man's eyes had returned to his childhood sweetheart, never noticing the small blonde who always tagged along behind! How astonished she had been that Christine would throw away his love so carelessly! And how crushed she had been when Raoul's heart did not falter in its devotion to Christine, even when Meg stood ready to take her place.

Her dowry was now substantial enough to warrant a marriage to a titled man, if any such would overlook her place as a ballerina. She had received many offers from noblemen, all written in fine hands, full of promises and barely-chaste suggestions. They all wanted her as their mistress, none wanted her as a wife. Madame Giry steadfastly refused to give her daughter's virtue away so easily, but neither would she settle for the poor sort of marriage that she herself had entered into, happy though it had been. Meg feared becoming an old maid before her mother settled on a man.

She had no doubt that Raoul would see past her position. He had seen past Christine's. But she did not know how to attract his attention. Other men saw her dance and came without encouragement. Raoul watched, and in his eyes was always the faraway look of a man whose heart is dancing in the empty spaces, looking for a woman no longer there. He would not come to her.

And she did not have the courage to go to him.

-

Philippe glanced up from his correspondence. "Ah, brother. Finally. I began to worry when you didn't meet me for lunch."

"Philippe," Raoul sunk down in a chair and passed a weary hand over his eyes. "Stop behaving in such a self-righteous manner and admit that you don't give a damn what I do."

"Oh, but I do." Philippe tossed a letter into the wastebasket. "What you do reflects on me, Raoul, and I intend to see that you cease to reflect so unfavorably."

Raoul stood suddenly and retrieved the letter. The return address had read _Sorelli_, and he pulled the thin paper from the envelope.

_Philippe,_

_I will not call you 'darling' as I have done, for I see now where I truly stand. I wished you to know that the babe is born. I know you will not care what I have named her, but I will tell you that I called her Elise, after your mother, for indeed, she favors that lady far more than she favors me, if your descriptions are correct._

_I do not expect you to acknowledge the babe or I. I knew my place long before I entered this unfortunate situation, and I was remiss in allowing myself to believe in promises spoken in the heat of passion. The others warned me, and I did not listen. There was no shame in taking our pleasure in each other, there are few things better for women such as I than to lie with a nobleman who cares well for them, but I was foolish to believe that there was more between us than mutual desire. _

_I do not blame you for this, as I know that it was an 'accident', and that it happens often, to many women. My career has come to an end, and I have little hope for a successful future. I hope to find work that will not force me into prostitution, as that is the most despicable of fates. I do not expect anything from you, knowing you as I do, but I would ask a bit of money perhaps, for the babe's sake, not mine. I am not a beggar, Philippe, but I am penniless, having run out of my last cheque from the Populaire. If I can, I will pay you back the money when I am able, or however else you might prefer. I intend for my child and I both to live, and live as well as we are able, but in my current state, the babe will be the first to suffer, and perhaps die. I do not wish this for my child, and as she is a part of you, whatever you might wish to relay to the contrary in public, I appeal to your conscience on the behalf of little Elise._

_Sorelli_

Raoul looked at the postmark and stood suddenly. "This was written months ago, Philippe! She and the baby both could be dead by now! For the love of God, she has asked no more than human consideration! Could you not have spared a few francs for a penniless woman who not long ago warmed your bed and gave you anything you asked of her?"

Philippe reached out and snatched the letter from Raoul's hand. "You spout your righteous drivel still, little brother? You have much to learn about the world if you think that I could send her a few coins and thus destroy my conscience's obligation to her and her bastard daughter. Once she had the first taste of my generosity, she would expect more, and beg for more, until a ruined dancer and her child would burden me forever! She chose to accept my favors, knowing that they would end if anything…unfortunate should occur. She should expect nothing more from me."

"That child is yours too!"

"An unfortunate circumstance that I offered to remedy."

"You are disgusting."

"Womanish language and thoughts, boy. I am only as disgusting as any other man who lives and breathes and possesses a man's body. Or did you yourself not take a whore and then kill her?"

Raoul's face went white. Philippe smiled cruelly, and Raoul left the room, violence hanging heavy in the air between them.

-

The Opera house drew him, like the grisly scene of a death that sickens one to the very core, but from which one cannot look away.

He did not come every day, but he came often. He came, and he sat alone and watched the _corps_ practice, closed his eyes and listened to the voice of the new soprano, and he imagined Christine dancing, Christine singing, Christine's lithe body moving across the stage, her long legs stretching, the sensuous curve of her back arching, her slender arms and delicate hands raising above her head as brown doe-eyes and soft, full lips set in a porcelain white and smooth face expressed emotions that seemed torn directly from her soul. Whether she danced or sang, he had desired her. It had not mattered that her dancing left much to be desired, while her singing was unearthly. To see her was to want her, to touch her was to stand on the brink of bliss, to hold her and kiss her was to ascend to Heaven, to know her was to love her.

To lose her was to know agony that could only be replicated in the flames of Hell.

His dreams were filled with her. Even the most salacious dreams were tinged with love, with want, with need not for a woman's presence, but for _Christine_'_s_ presence. There was no sin in those dreams, and so he did not confess them. He dreamed of a married woman, but she had belonged to him before she belonged to Erik.

Erik was the sinner, the thief, the adulterer.

He hated the man with a passion that no doubt was a sin, desired his death so greatly that sometimes he felt the wanting alone might destroy his enemy.

Raoul sat again this afternoon, watching the dancers, imagining Christine was with them. He closed his eyes and heard the voice of the soprano ascend, higher and higher, and he heard Christine's voice again. He saw her in a white gown and starbursts, a woman and no longer the child he had known.

_There will never be a day when I won't think of you._

He remembered the carriage ride home, just before he had lost her for the final time. He remembered how she had yielded to him, kissed him as though for a moment, she had wavered between the two men…and perhaps almost chosen him.

The music ended, the soprano's voice drifted into oblivion, and the vision of Christine in satin and diamonds disappeared.

He opened his eyes as the next song began, a _soli_ for the ballerinas.

How like Erik he had become! He was obsessed with Christine, thoroughly enamored with her memory. What a sick madness this was!

There was no help for it.

His gaze shifted to the place of highest visibility, where the _prima_ danced as the other rats leapt and _pirouetted_ around her. Meg danced there, where Sorelli had once been.

The thought of Sorelli burned him, fueling his resentment for his brother and Philippe's twisted societal values.

Meg had changed in the last year. Raoul watched her dance across the stage for a moment, and he could not help but notice how her body had changed. The thin, straight lines had morphed into gentle curves of breast and hip and thigh, her legs had grown longer, the lines of calf and arch of foot emphasized by the feminine musculature developed by rigorous training. Her fingers were more delicate, the bones of her hands finer, the length of her arms more slender. Her face was taking on definition, her blue eyes sparkling with vitality as she danced. Her skin glowed a pale pink beneath the stage lights, virgin skin that had never known the touch of a man's lips, never been tasted by a man's tongue. Her body emanated sensuality not yet experienced, and Raoul's body reacted to this line of thought despite himself.

Meg was no longer the shy girl of fourteen that she had been at their initial meeting. She was sixteen now, and very much a woman.

No doubt noblemen were already vying for her as their mistress. If it had been any girl but Meg, Raoul would have theorized that she was taken already, but he knew Madame Giry. The woman would be hard-pressed to settle for any less than a proposal of marriage.

Sorelli sprang to mind again and Raoul winced inwardly at the thought of gentle Meg consigned to such a fate.

Perhaps there was a man of substance who would offer Meg marriage.

For her sake, he certainly hoped so.


	4. A Noble Marriage

**A/N:**

**Never fear, I have not abandoned this story! But writer's block is kicking in rather frequently. If/when you review, suggestions as to how you would like this story to go would be greatly appreciated.**

**Here is Ch. 3. Read, enjoy, and please review!**

**-**

**Chapter 3: A Noble Marriage**

Madame Giry laid down the last suitor's letter with a sigh. There were noblemen aplenty who sought after her Meg, rich and handsome men vying for her favors. But none offered marriage, none offered security.

Antoinette did not want to see her daughter end up like Sorelli. Such a promising dancer that girl had been! She had squandered her talent for money, favors, and bedplay with a handsome noble. Madame Giry had not heard from the former _prima_, and she thought that perhaps no news was good news. She was fairly certain that she did not want to know the true fate of the ballerina and her little daughter.

There came a tentative knock at the door.

"Come in." Antoinette replied tiredly, pushing the stack of letters to the side. Her daughter deserved the world! Why could she not give it to her?

Raoul stepped into the room. "I'm sorry to bother you, Madame. It's just that the nights grow lonely, and I thought perhaps a chat might do you good as well."

"I've not spoken to you in some time, Viscomte de Chagny. What is it?"

"Please, call me Raoul." He glanced at the stack of letters. "Suitors for little Meg?"

"She is not so little anymore." Madame handed him the topmost letter. "Read that, Raoul."

_Marguerite,_

_You were enchanting upon the stage tonight. Your beauty is unsurpassed by any other dancer, and I would be grateful if you would allow me the courtesy of escorting you to a dinner one night…_

_You glowed like an angel—and I couldn't help but imagine how your skin might shimmer in candlelight, rather than the glare of the spotlights._

_Perhaps I can show you my home, as well. I'm certain you would be most impressed._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Baron von Declan _

Raoul winced.

"Oh, some of them are much worse. Others are not so bad, but none offer marriage. And I want nothing less for Meg."

Raoul nodded, remembering his brother's unyielding expression when reading Sorelli's letter. No, Meg should not be forced to endure such a fate.

"How long has it been?"

"She has been receiving offers since just before…before Christine's departure. Once she became the _prima_, they have only doubled."

Antoinette could not miss the change in Raoul's expression when Christine was mentioned. She rattled on, her voice increasing in pitch. She hated to see the Viscomte so pained. He should be over her by now.

_No man ensnared by Christine ever got over her_.

She hated to think of Christine so. But the child had caused nothing but pain, and then had left them all to handle their demons alone. She wrote Meg, but nary a letter had Madame Giry received.

She could hypothesize a thousand reasons why Christine had not contacted her, but Antoinette knew it was better left alone. The girl had her lover and her freedom. The destruction left behind was better forgotten.

"I want better for Meg than what I had. I loved Monsieur Jules, but our life was simple and poor. When I ceased dancing and bore children, we struggled on what little he made as a blacksmith. I loved Meg dearly, but I missed dancing, the lights and the parties and the whirlwind of activity. I had nothing to replace it. If Meg marries well, she will have something to replace what she will lose when she leaves the stage."

"That is not too much to ask, methinks." Raoul replied.

"But it seems that it is. Nearly every wealthy man has asked for her, but none wish to marry her. A ballerina, even a _prima_, is beneath them. Just as…"

Antoinette cut off sharply, but Raoul knew what she had been about to say.

_Just as Christine was beneath you._

Without thinking twice, he made a decision.

"Then what would you say, Madame, if I told you that I had come tonight to offer my suit to Marguerite?"

Antoinette's mouth dropped open. It was, indeed, the first time the distinguished Madame Giry had ever found herself in such an undignified position.

-

"Did you see who was watching the rehearsal tonight?" Lisette asked coyly, stealing a sideways glance at Meg.

"I most certainly did not." Meg replied, though she knew of whom Lisette spoke. She had felt the Viscomte's eyes on her all afternoon, though she had tried to ignore it. No doubt he came to be reminded of Christine.

_Why does he torture himself so?_

"The Viscomte de Chagny!" Lisette squealed, practically bouncing in excitement as she pulled pins loose from her hair. "And he was watching you, Meg, all the time! Perhaps he will ask for you!"

Marjory sneered. "I wouldn't go with him if he were the emperor himself! Do you not remember what happened with that chorus girl? No doubt he comes to find a replacement for her. Everyone knows he is mad."

Meg leapt up. "He is not mad! He was in love with Christine, true, but that does not mean he is crazy!"

The girls began to laugh. Jammes smiled. "So, our Meg is in love at last! We wondered how long it would be before you joined the rest of us."

"She could have already, if it were not for her _maman_." remarked Blanche. "Meg has received more offers than any of us, but Madame insists upon marriage."

"Perhaps the Viscomte will offer marriage." Lisette suggested. "After all, he was engaged to Christine. Is a ballerina so much worse?"

"They became engaged after Christine was the diva." Marjory snipped. "And his brother, remember, was responsible for La Sorelli's _situation_. I would not have him."

The girls all quieted at the thought of Sorelli. "But none of us ever liked Philippe." Lisette offered. "The Viscomte was so kind to Christine."

"That does not mean he will be kind to another. Noblemen are fickle."

Meg opened her mouth to reply when the doorknob turned suddenly and Madame Giry entered.

The chatter ceased instantly.

A small smile was quirking at the edges of Madame Giry's mouth. "Meg, come with me, please."

-

Raoul was still in the office when Meg entered, followed by her mother. Her face paled upon seeing him, but her eyes brightened noticeably. He took this as a favorable sign, and at a nod from Madame Giry, began.

"With your permission, Marguerite, I would like to offer my suit for your hand in marriage. Your mother has already agreed, but I did not wish to do anything without your assent. Your happiness is of the utmost importance to me."

Meg did not, could not miss the formality with which he addressed her. It unnerved her a little, but no more than the countless other, much less decent, proposals had.

Her mind reeled. The Viscomte de Chagny wanted _her!_ He wanted her for his wife, to be the new Viscomtess! She looked at her mother, and saw how Madame Giry beamed. This was what her mother wanted. And it was what she wanted—had secretly wanted since Raoul had first arrived at the opera house.

"Yes, Viscomte de Chagny." she replied, feeling numb. "I accept your proposal."


	5. Only The Truth

**A/N:**

**Here is the next installment! Apologies for the slowness.**

**Keep in mind, please, while reading this story, especially the next few chapters: in writing Raoul as I am, I do not mean to bash his character or paint him as a rogue. Rather, he is a respectable nobleman, waging a war against his brother, disillusionment, and caught between trying to regain his former self, or allowing a further descent into madness, which, after all, can be bliss. Please don't hate Raoul or me for writing him this way, it's only one view of the story.**

**-**

**Chapter 4: Only The Truth**

_Dearest Christine,_

_I know you may find this hard to believe—even I cannot seem to comprehend it fully, and for me it has been two whole days! The Viscomte de Chagny—yes, Raoul—has asked my mother if he might court me, with the intention of marriage!_

_I worried at first that you might be angry with me, or jealous, but then I remembered your happiness with Erik, and I know you would wish only that for me. However, I am struck nearly witless at the prospect of being courted by Raoul de Chagny. He was yours first, and I never dreamed that I might be the one he chose to replace you._

_The idea of becoming a Viscomtess, along with all that entails, frightens me more than a little. There is so much that I do not know. And besides, I will have to give up my dancing when we wed, and I have shed some tears over that, but I have decided that, if he should propose, then I will accept, for this is an opportunity I should not let slip by. I will never receive such a proposal from any other man, and I would rather give up my dancing to be joined in wedlock than to have a nobleman's child when we are not wed._

_I hope that he will come to love me as he loved you, my friend. I can never hope to compare to or replace you, but I will do my best to make him happy._

_Do send me your regards, dear Christine. I do so want you to be happy for me._

_I will send you the date as soon as the ring is on my finger!_

_All my love,_

_Meg_

Christine lay the note down on the bedside table, folding the crisp paper and sliding it back neatly into the linen envelope.

"Erik?" she called, wondering where her husband might be.

"Yes, Christine?" The tall figure of the erstwhile Phantom entered the room, garbed as casually as he could bear in dark trousers and a white lawn shirt half-open.

As always, Christine swooned just a little at the sight of him, as she rose to embrace him and handed him the letter.

Erik read it through, his brow creasing at the information contained within. His voice was tight when he finished. "So little Meg is to wed the Viscomte. How does that make you feel, Christine?"

"Happy." Christine replied calmly, taking the letter from his hand. "I am overjoyed that she will gain the joy I have found, and that she will have all that she deserves from life. I bear no ill will or jealousy, if that is what you are asking."

Erik nodded, though he continued to appraise Christine. "She may gain what she deserves, but I would not count on her finding joy. That boy will bring nothing but misery to anyone who tries to come near him now."

He turned and walked out then, leaving an effervescent tension lingering in the air.

-

After morning Mass that Sunday, Raoul approached Meg as she and her mother were exiting the cathedral. He had a long-stemmed white rose in one hand, and he extended it to Meg.

"May I request the pleasure of your company on a walk today, Mademoiselle Giry?"

Meg laughed, a delightfully cheery sound. "Of course, Monsieur le Viscomte. And please, call me Meg, as you have always done."

"It shall be my delight, Meg, if you will call me by my Christian name as well."

"Very well, then, Raoul."

-

At was precisely at noon that Raoul came to the opera house for her. Meg came outside, dressed quite beautifully in a pale blue day-dress. Her hair was pinned up, as became a proper young lady.

It was but a short carriage ride to the park, which was teeming with Parisians out on a Sunday excursion. Raoul's valet followed dutifully behind as a chaperon, and the young couple was free to talk as they wished.

"Will it sadden you greatly to give up dancing, Meg?" Raoul asked, such a look of concern on his face that Meg knew it was a question that had troubled him for some time.

She tried to make light of it, laughing with a carefree sound. It delighted and irritated Raoul all at once—delighted because Meg's laugh seemed to make the sun shine brighter and the birds sing more loudly all at once, and irritated because it reminded him of a joy that he had once had, and now feared he would never have again.

He felt young and old beyond his years all at once when he was with Meg, and he was not at all sure that it was a pleasant thing.

"You speak as though we are engaged already." She smiled coquettishly at him, as her fellow ballerinas had told her to do. _"Act as though you have a dozen men proposing marriage," _Lisette had instructed. "_It will drive him mad and make him want you all the more. The trick with men is to act as though you care not a whit, even if you care a great deal."_

"I told you, Marguerite, that I was courting you with the intention of marriage." He did not seem at all pleased with her little game, yet she was loathe to give it up when she had barely begun.

"Intentions are not always what they seem, monsieur."

"Mine are far better than what you have received in the past."

"And how am I to know that?"

Raoul's brows drew together, and Meg felt a delightful shiver go through her, an intoxicating sense of power, and a twinge of fear all at once.

"You will know, mademoiselle, by my actions." The stiff formality had returned. "Or would you have me play the rake instead of the gentleman?"

"Not at all, monsieur." Meg's tone was demure. "But you are not the only man who has offered for me."

"I am the only man who has offered marriage."

"True, but the others might in time."

"No other would want the stigma of marriage to a ballerina."

"You do not care?"

"I do not."

He saw with a surge of devilish glee his brother's expression when, after an appropriate interlude of wooing, he announced his engagement to Meg, a ballerina. Philippe would be furious.

The very thought made Raoul happier than he had been in months.

"And what of you, Meg? Do you object to marrying a man who is considered, in the general opinion of Paris, to be mad?"

She stopped then, and looked at him, suddenly serious, her gaze matching his. "I do not think you mad, Raoul. I think you in love, with a woman far beyond your reach, and I think you a broken man, not easily pieced back together. If this is madness, it can be cured. _I_ believe it can be cured."

"Then you, mademoiselle, are far more optimistic than others." His face had hardened. "There are things even you do not know about me, Meg, things you may not know until you have been my wife for some time." He turned away from her for a moment, then reached out awkwardly and took her hand.

"There is much to be said, Meg, between the two of us. Our marriage will be scandalous, and the things that the gossips may say about you will not be at all pleasant. I will offer you what I can, but there is little that I can promise. I am a broken man, Meg, as you said. You are a perceptive woman, but there are some things that I do not wish perceived, yet. There may come a time when you can heal me, but I must warn you, the rumors of my madness are not entirely untrue."

He paused for a moment, wishing to quell the spark of uncertainty he saw in her eyes. "When may I take you to dinner, Meg? We will finish speaking then."

"Next Sunday." she replied, smiling. "I will look forward to it."

They were quiet all the walk home.

-

Raoul took her to dinner the next Sunday as promised. Meg looked stunning, her cornsilk hair pinned up into an elaborate design, and dressed in a pink confection of an evening dress that clung to her in strategic places and lent her curves where she lacked them.

Dinner was uneventful, and Raoul was very quiet on the ride home. He sat beside her, fingers loosely entwined with hers. He looked out the carriage window to the lamplit streets, and spoke suddenly.

"I loved Christine very much, you know."

"I know." Meg whispered, her voice small.

"Do you think you can marry me, Meg, knowing how much I loved her? How much I still love her?"

Meg was silent for several moments. "I think I can."

He turned to face her. "Why? How?"

_Because I love you. Because I have always loved you, even when you were Christine's._

"Because there are more important things to a woman than love. There is the security of a good man, comfort, and a place in society. You can offer me these."

_Liar!_ Her conscience accused her. _You want nothing more than for him to look into your eyes as he looked into Christine's! You want nothing more than for him to desire you as he did her! You want those words of love! Can you live a lifetime without them?_

Raoul took both of Meg's hands in his. "I cannot promise to love you, or to share all of my secrets with you as a husband should with his wife. I cannot promise any of the things that a woman wants to hear except for these: I will give you my name, my home, my wealth and my security, as long as I live, and you will be provided for well if you should outlive me. No one will look down upon you. I will give you children if you wish, and they may love you even if I cannot." He smiled, a small, sad smile. "It is not much, but I am being honest with you, Meg, because I do care for you." He caressed the backs of the hands he held. "Will you marry me, Marguerite Giry?"

Meg looked into his blue eyes, those beautiful eyes that had held her captive from the first moment she had seen them, and she knew that she loved him so that she would endure an eternity without his love, if only she might be near him. The thought of being separated from him now was too painful to bear. In time, perhaps she might heal his demons. In time, he might love her.

"Yes, Raoul." She replied, her voice soft, full of love, though she had meant to hide her feelings. "I will marry you."

He slid a ring onto her finger, a lovely band of gold filigree, with a sapphire that matched her eyes and small, delicate diamonds on either side. He saw the tears beginning to mist in her eyes, tears of sadness or of joy, he did not know, and he leaned forwards to kiss her for the first time.

Her lips were warm while his were cool, her touch hesitant while his was practiced. He held her gently, not meaning to seduce but to woo. Seduction of Meg had never entered his mind. Christine he had wished to seduce, but Meg seemed an ethereal wisp, a fragment of a cloud that must be held gently lest it fade away. His lips remained closed, even when she pressed, in her heady delight at receiving her first kiss, to deepen it. He pulled away, unsatisfied, but the glow in her eyes and the flush of her cheeks told him that she was satisfied indeed.

_Can you really do this, Raoul? _He questioned himself, even as his ring was already on her finger. _Can you marry her for your own means, because a Viscomte cannot remain a bachelor and you wish revenge on your brother? Will you destroy her as you did Giselle, because she loves you already to distraction and you cannot love her in the least?_

He held her hand tightly, aware of his folly, yet powerless to prevent his own errors.

_I am mad. God in Heaven, I am truly mad._


	6. Without Forgiveness

**Chapter 6: Without Forgiveness**

Raoul lay awake that night, stretched out atop the velvet coverlet of his bed, eyes boring into the dark ceiling. There was no sleep for him this night, as was often the case. He lay there, thinking of the evening, and of his new fiancée, and of the wretched life he was bestowing upon her.

He had revealed much more to her than he had intended. It was a terribly caddish thing to say to one's betrothed, that he could, and most likely would, never love her. She had tried to hide the hurt in her lovely blue eyes, but it had been there, plain for him to see. He had seen hurt in women's eyes too often to not recognize it.

How callous of him! How terrible! And yet she had accepted his proposal, held out her slender hand for his ring, and kissed him with far more passion than he had expected or desired.

His marriage to Meg would serve him two purposes. He needed a wife, and to his mind, the best wife was one that would infuriate his brother and cause society to whisper even more than they did already, which would only serve to anger Philippe more. Meg fulfilled all this. In exchange, he would give her that which no other nobleman would offer: marriage, and all the security and comforts therein.

It would be a marriage in every sense, no doubt of that. He desired children, and in no way did he desire celibacy, though he had not touched a woman since Giselle's death. But he had no taste for whores now, and extramarital affairs offended him. Nor could he bear the deception of sweet Meg, or the hurt in her eyes if she should find out. No, he would satisfy himself with his wife, and be a rare specimen of his class to do so. But the prospect did not fill his veins with fire and torment his dreams as the thought of bedding Christine had. Meg was desirable enough, and a possessor of no small beauty. But her hair was blond and fine, hair that would sift gently through his fingers and slide silkily over his hands, while Christine's hair had been dark and thick, hair that he could catch his fingers in and twine about his hands in the midst of passion. Meg was small and petite, so fragile that he would fear to be anything but gentle with her, lest she break under a forceful touch. Christine had been taller, with a body built for passion, built for furious lovemaking as well as the sweeter, sensual sort. Meg's figure was dainty, while Christine's had been voluptuous, her lips pale and thin while Christine's had been red and full…the list of comparisons went on and on, and in every one Meg came up short.

Christine…beautiful Christine…

How he had longed to seduce her with all the powers that he had! How he had longed to take her roughly in his arms and kiss her as she begged to be kissed! How he had desired to take her home with him one night, and ravish her upon a velvet bed, loving her so completely that no thought of any other man could ever draw her from his side!

And yet, he had bent to propriety, as ever, and he had played the gentleman with her. When he tried to kiss her more deeply, he saw her maidenly blush and pulled away. When he tried to stroke her breasts or touch her intimately, he heard her virginal excuses and ceased to touch her. And all the while she had been lusting after a beast, a phantom in the dark, and letting him touch her, kiss her and caress her as she had denied her own fiancé the right to do.

He had seen his folly at last the night he kissed her in the carriage, when he treated her as a woman and not as a girl, and he knew then that if he had given her what she desired, satisfied her carnal needs, along with all the love and devotion that he had offered, she well might have been his.

But there was another girl that haunted his dreams now, who floated in his mind like a hazy vision and tormented him ceaselessly.

Giselle…poor, pitiful Giselle.

Her fragile beauty tormented him more than his dreams of Christine, for in his nightmares her blood was red upon his hands again, and her final, choking gasp sounded in his ears so harshly that it jarred his bones and tore at his heart.

He glanced across the room, to where his sword leant against the stone of the fireplace. Inside the well-oiled leather sheath, he knew, rested a gleaming blade of silver, cleaned and polished and honed.

But in his mind's eye, he saw blood oozing from the leather and dripping down the sides, encrusted on the blade, dried on the hilt as it was streaked on his hands.

God, he wanted to sleep peacefully again. He wanted…he wanted things he couldn't even name, hopeless longings when he thought of Christine, a fanatical desire to turn back time and take back Giselle's death. He would rather be dead himself than live a lifetime looking down at his hands and seeing the imaginary streaks of innocent blood.

-

How many times had he visited Giselle's grave? He didn't know, but he found himself there again, looking down at the small, leaf-covered plot of earth. He laid the flowers down that he had brought, a spray of warm autumn color over the drab place where the seventeen-year-old girl had been buried.

Raoul felt the tears rise in his eyes, spill over his cheeks, and he made no effort to stop them. They were unmanly, he knew, but he felt that he could never, never shed enough tears for this girl who had lived far too short a life, and yet had been made old long before she should have.

"I'm sorry." he whispered. He had said it so many times, and yet, he felt no peace, no forgiveness.

Was this how Erik had felt? This constant torment of guilt, the nightmares, the endless longings to change the unchangeable? And if so, did he not deserve that peace wherever he could find it?

Raoul felt a spark, a chance to forgive the man who had taken so much from him, and then he extinguished it. It was Erik's fault that he stood here now, Erik's fault that Giselle was dead. It was all, all Erik's fault. That beast should never even have been born. If not for him, Christine would be here now, married to Raoul.

He thrust away all forgiveness, and in so doing, perhaps damned himself as well.

-

_Dear Meg,_

_I am overjoyed to hear of your upcoming nuptials to the Viscomte. The description you sent me of your ring sounded truly lovely, and I wish I were there with you now. _

_Give Raoul time, Meg. I'm sure he did not mean that he could never love you, only that he will have to make room in his heart. He has endured much pain, some things that you do not know of. I will not tell you, for it is his place to confide when and how much he wishes._

_Spring weddings are lovely, and I am glad that you have chosen that season for yours. There will be much planning—I can promise that you will not be wanting for things to do! _

_I will do my best to come, but I will be obliged to bring Erik with me, naturally. Please tell me if this will cause any difficulty._

_Love and best wishes,_

_Christine_

-

Madame Giry positively glowed at rehearsals that Monday morning. All the ballet rats reaped the rewards of Meg's good fortune, for her tone was less biting and her reprimands less harsh, and as a treat for their hard work, she let all the girls go without the usual hour of fine-tuning after regular rehearsals were over.

"I'm ever so glad you are marrying the Viscomte!" Lisette crowed as they crowded into the dressing-room. "Things are so much better for us now!"

Marjory rolled her eyes. "Think of Meg, Lisette, before you go dreaming of lace and bells." She turned to face Meg. "Your life is going to be hell, don't you know that? It's a struggle at best fitting into the upper crust when you're from our class, but having a husband who supports and loves you makes it a good deal easier. But you won't even have that. You'll be alone, in a world of people who would sooner see you dead than wearing the same clothes as they and living in the same circumstances. Even worse, you'll have a madman for a husband."

"Raoul is not mad!" Meg cried.

"Yes, he is, dear, and I don't mean to hurt you by saying it. The details are sketchy at best, and there is no knowing how much of it is rumor and how much is truth. But there are horrid events surrounding Christine's reuniting with Erik, and Raoul's part in it has caused him madness, as well it should."

"What happened! Everyone has alluded to it, but no one will tell! They say it is his right to tell me!"

"That it is." Marjory nodded. "Only he can tell you what is truth and what is not. Marry him if you will, Meg, but do not expect an idyll. Expect hardship that has nothing to do with poverty. It is a hard thing to love a man who looks at you with only desire, at the most, and perhaps caring, as one would give to a pet dog. When all your heart and soul is his, and you have nothing in return, that is the worst sort of poverty."

Meg saw a flash of pain in Marjory's eyes. "Jory…you?"

Marjory's eyes closed briefly. "Yes, I. There was a man…" Her face twisted, as though in incomparable pain, and then hardened. "But it means nothing now. Be careful, little one. Life is rarely as simple as it pretends to be."


	7. A Flurry Of Activity

Chapter 7: A Flurry Of Activity 

_Christine,_

_My dearest friend, it is with great regret that I inform you that Raoul does not wish Erik's presence at our wedding. I would have had no problem with it at all, but he is most firm on the matter. We got into our first real argument over it, and he quite frightened me with his vehemence. I suppose Erik's presence would remind him of terrible memories, or so _Maman_ says, but what these terrible memories are, besides his loss of you, no one will tell me. They all say it is his place to decide when and if I should know, but it does concern me dreadfully that I am marrying a man with a past of which I know nothing about. _

_I am being ungrateful, I know. Here he is, giving me the life that I dreamed of, a life I never thought I could have, and I am complaining because he does not open his heart to me. He does not love me, I know, and it is hard, to marry a man I care so much about, knowing that he feels very little for me at all, except perhaps fondness, and pity. Pity is worst of all, but women of our class cannot be choosy. To marry a Viscomte is to ascend high above my station, and I know I should be grateful and not carry on so. _

_Do come anyway, dear Christine. I'm sure Erik would understand—he is ever so much more understanding than Raoul. I would simply die if you were not here, Christine, I do so want you to be one of my attendants. Do say you can come! I miss you so dreadfully, and I wish you were here now. The other rats are little help, they either giggle madly and offer nothing but their empty-headed ideas, or the more sensible ones speak of strange rumors and warn me of what I am getting myself into. I wonder sometimes if I should not listen to them…_

_But there I go again! I am really a terrible girl, to carry on so! Do write quickly Christine, and tell me if you may come, so that I can have you a dress made. The wedding is soon!_

_All my love,_

_Meg_

-

Christine stared down at the letter in her hand, then folded it and lay it aside with a little sigh. "Oh, Meg," she mused, tapping her fingers against the wooden writing-table.

"What is it, Christine?"

Erik came up behind his wife, laying his hands on her shoulders and bending, ostensibly to kiss her cheek. Christine gasped a little as he nibbled at the lobe of her ear, and leaned back into his embrace.

"Meg has written us, Erik."

"Oh? Does the boy say that we _may_ come to his wedding?" Sarcasm laced his voice, but Christine chose to ignore it, thinking frantically of the best way to pose her request.

"Raoul…" she paused delicately. "Raoul does not wish you to come, Erik." There. It was out, and she braced herself for her husband's wrath.

It came quickly.

"Me! Does not want me to come! Well then, by God, if he cannot swallow his damned pride, neither of us shall go!"

Christine stood and faced him, her cheeks flushed. "You can't do that, Erik! It means the world to Meg for me to be there! We have known each other since we were children!"

"But I mean nothing? I am your _husband_, if you have not forgotten it!"

"I have not forgotten it." Christine answered quietly. "But Meg does not know you well, Erik. She knows you are the man I love, but she bears no great love for you herself, asides from the acquaintance she shares with the man who is my husband. But she is my only and dearest friend, and you must see how much it means to her that I attend her at her wedding. She would wish it no matter whom she were marrying, be it Raoul or no."

Erik clenched his jaw. "I don't like it, Christine."

"Do you think I do?" She reached up to touch his cheek. "Do you think I want to go back to Paris alone, and face Raoul, with the memory of my betrayal fresh in his mind, my belly swelling with your child? For I did betray him, for love of you, Erik. I would give all the world to never look upon his face again, but I would make this sacrifice of myself to be there for my friend, who never abandoned me, despite all that I did and all that I have done. Do not fear that anything will pass between me and Raoul, darling. I love _you_, and I carry _your_ child. I will not even speak to Raoul, unless propriety demands it. What was between him and I was over long ago."

Erik turned away and walked to the window, staring out over the canals of Venice. His fists thrust into his pockets, he seemed to consider for a long moment before nodding, his jaw still hard with restrained anger.

"Very well, my dear. You may go. But I wish you back as soon as possible, and know that this is not easy for me, nor is it what I wish." He forced a smile. "But I do understand."

"Oh, Erik!" Christine embraced him joyfully. "Thank you!"

He smiled, and sighed inwardly at his foolishness, knowing that he would give her anything she asked, just to see that delightful smile.

-

_Dear Meg,_

_  
Erik has agreed to let me attend the wedding without him, however, he is far from happy. I will not be able to stay as long as I had hoped, but I will be taking a train into Paris as soon as I am able. _

_I am sending a paper with my measurements in this letter. I have grown a bit larger in these last few months._

_Love,_

_Christine_

Christine smiled mischievously as she sealed the letter. She couldn't wait to see the look on Meg's face when she realized exactly _why_ her friend had gained weight.

-

Meg's world had been a flurry of activity. Madame Giry had taken it well in stride, handling the decorations, the cake, the wine, the dinner, the reception—which would be attended by all of Paris's highest society—as well as assisting her daughter in choosing an appropriate gown and the dresses for the attendants. Along with all of that, a new _prima_ would have to be hired immediately.

Andre and Firmin were not at all happy.

"First Christine leaves, and now you!" they had exclaimed almost in unison. "Marriage should be banned, I say, utterly banned. It's bad for business, I tell you, very bad!"

"We never had such problems in the junk business." Firmin had complained, rolling his eyes heavenward.

Andre had elbowed him sharply in the ribs and hissed: "_Scrap metal_!"

-

Christine arrived the day before the wedding. Meg rushed to the door, and looked her friend up and down. "You look so beautiful!" she exclaimed, taking in Christine's pale blue skirt and waist-jacket, with the starched linen shirtwaist and frilled jabot beneath. "And you are practically glowing!" She did not notice at first Christine's delicate condition, until Madame Giry embraced Christine, took a good look at her, and exclaimed: "My dear, how far along are you!"

Meg's mouth dropped open in an entirely unladylike manner. "Christine, you are…are…"

"Yes, Meg." Christine replied, smiling. "I am to have a baby in six months or so."

"The trip must have been awful! You should not have traveled! I would have managed without you, truly I could have…"

"Oh, Meg!" Christine exclaimed, embracing her friend. "You are such a darling, truly you are, but the truth is, it was no trouble at all. I am hardly pregnant at all, you see! It is hardly noticeable, and I have never been the vaporish sort. I'm fine, Meg, really."

Meg nodded, her blue eyes still wide. "I'm so happy for you, Christine. I can hardly wait until Raou…I mean, the Viscomte and I have children. They are such a blessing." She searched Christine's face worriedly. "Are you happy for me, Christine? Truly?"

Christine took both Meg's hands in her own white-gloved ones. "I am overjoyed, Meg. What was between Raoul and I is far in the past."

Lisette poked her head in suddenly. "Meg, the Viscomte is here to see you."

Meg looked nervously at first her mother, and then Christine.

"Send him in to my sitting-room, Lisette." Madame instructed. "We will receive him there."

Lisette nodded and scurried off.

Christine took Meg's arm and they walked to the sitting room, chattering lively the whole way.

-

Raoul entered the room, looking about for his fiancée. He espied her immediately, but stopped short suddenly when he saw the dark-haired vision in blue seated next to her, talking animatedly to both Madame and Meg.

"Meg." His voice rang sharply through the room, far harsher than he had intended, and he tried to soften it. "Meg, dear, may I speak to you for a moment?"

Meg rose hurriedly and stepped outside with him, closing the door carefully behind her.

"I thought you said they were not coming." Raoul looked down at her, his hands thrust into his coat pockets.

"I said Erik was not coming. I never said anything about Christine…"

"I assumed, Marguerite, that Christine would not come without Erik. Am I wrong?"

"Well…she is here… you see. Erik is not with her."

"Did it ever occur to you, dear, that it might hurt me to have her here?"

Meg's face tightened imperceptibly, and she answered Raoul sharply for the first time.

"Did it ever occur to you that it might hurt _me_ to _not_ have her here?"

Raoul stepped back. "I don't want to see her!"

Meg stared up at him. "You're not still in love with her, are you?"

"I told you what you could expect of me." He turned away. "You know how I feel."

"I did not expect for you to still feel exactly as you did then!"

"Damn it, Meg, I've loved her since I was five years old! It doesn't just go away! Yes, I still love her! I will continue to love her, and God help me, but I don't want her there when I give my hand to another woman!"

Tears rose in Meg's eyes. "Another woman? I do not mean to be ungrateful, _monsieur_, but in marrying you I had hoped that I might be more than just another woman!"

"You will be my wife, Marguerite, and I will give you all the honor a husband is due his wife, but nowhere does the law say that I must love you!"

"It says such in my Bible." Meg replied tearfully.

"Then perhaps I am a little less of a Christian than I once was."

"I still plan to marry you, Raoul…"

"I expected nothing less."

"But if I am to live a life without love, at least cede to me in this, that I might have my best friend attend me at my only wedding. Give me at least this much, Raoul, you cannot give me your heart!"

His mouth hardened, but he nodded. "Fine, then. Have your way, Meg. But it will not always be so. As my wife you will do my bidding, do you understand?"

"Yes, Raoul." Her voice was hushed.

"I want to hear no more talk of my loving you, do you understand!"

"Yes, Raoul." She fought back tears.

He turned back and saw the sorrow in her eyes. He took her in his arms suddenly, confusing her in the sudden change from harsh words to infinite tenderness. "I am sorry, Meg. I cannot help what I have become. I cannot help it."

"I know, Raoul." She buried her face in his shoulder. "I know."


	8. I Thee Wed

**A/N:**

**Here is the wedding chapter. The wedding night scene, as always, will be posted in the subsequent chapter. If you don't wish to read it, you may skip it, but it may contain some information that will be necessary to the plot, although you can make it without reading the chapter. I try to keep it as tame as possible, as always. **

**Please review!**

**-**

**Chapter 8: I Thee Wed**

Meg fairly trembled as she looked in the glass the next morning, clad in her silk stockings and chemise, awaiting her mother and Christine to do her laces and dress her in the magnificent gown that she had chosen for her wedding day.

She felt small and weak when she thought of what the day would hold. Beyond the frightening prospect of pledging her life to a man she hardly knew in a few hours, she would have to face the elite of Parisian society at a mammoth reception, and then—the wedding night.

She recalled the conversation she and Christine had shared in the dark the night before. For the occasion, Madame had allowed them to occupy Christine's old room, as the new diva was frequently occupying other lodgings of late. Lying next to each other in the dark, Meg had nervously questioned Christine about married life.

_"Is it so bad, really, Christine?" Meg asked, blushing furiously in the darkness. "Does it…does it hurt terribly?"_

_Christine laughed softly. "It does hurt rather dreadfully at first. With Erik, it hurt especially, as he is rather…well-endowed."_

_They began to giggle, and Meg felt as though they were little girls again, lying awake in the darkness and whispering about mysteries that they couldn't begin to understand._

_"Really, it is not so bad. Raoul is a gentle man, and I am sure he will be as careful as possible. There are ways to make it better." Christine explained at Meg's urging, and Meg gasped aloud, blushing even further._

_"Is it…fun?" Meg asked, her voice hesitant. "Some of the girls say that it is something to be borne, and a necessary evil, but well worth the rewards of having a happy man. And yet, the others seem to enjoy it very much, even go out looking for men who will sleep with them!"_

_"I have heard both as well." Christine agreed. "But from my own experience I can tell you that with a man you love and desire, and who loves and desires you as well, it is a wonderful thing." She was quiet for a moment, and Meg did not have the heart to tell her that Raoul was not in love with his fiancée, that he still loved Christine. _

_"Then I needn't be afraid?"_

_"Oh, no. I was terribly afraid as well, when Erik made love to me the first time, but it was so wonderful, and after I was never afraid again. He is a terribly considerate lover, you see." Christine grew serious then. "Never be afraid to tell or ask me anything, Meg. Write to me at any time, my correspondence is my own, and Erik will not see it. If you have questions, or fears, of any sort, I am there to listen, even if we must converse only through letter."_

_The two girls embraced then._

Meg sighed. She feared very greatly what the night might bring, but there was no escaping it now. She could only pray that Raoul would be gentle with her, even if he did not love her.

-

Two hours later, Meg stared at her reflection in the mirror. "Is that really me?" she whispered, bringing her hand to her mouth in shock.

Her dress was of white silk, with a scooped bodice edged in lace and embroidered with seed pearls. The sleeves were long, and the bodice was tight, ballooning out into an impossibly wide skirt with tiered waves of pure white silk, edged in more seed pearls. A long silk train spread out behind her, and falling in frothy layers to the floor behind and in front was Meg's veil, attached to a circlet of silver and pearls.

"Don't cry, Meg!" Christine exclaimed. "You look beautiful."

Christine was dressed in a lovely pale green satin gown, slightly off-shoulder, and carried a smaller version of Meg's bouquet, pink and white roses. Madame Giry was dressed in a matronly gown of dove-gray silk, the first time in over ten years that she had worn anything but black.

"Are you ready, my darling?" she asked, smiling at her beautiful daughter.

Meg took a deep breath. "Yes, _maman._" she replied. "I am ready."

-

Meg saw Raoul standing at the altar, resplendent in his own wedding finery. He stood straight and tall, with none of the doubts and fears that assailed her showing in his eyes. She walked slowly down the red-carpeted aisle, not daring to look at any of the people in the church.

There were not many. The wedding was a small affair, the reception would be much larger. Andre and Firmin were there, as was several members of the _corps_. Meg had chosen four of the girls that she was closest with to attend her along with Christine, and the others stood with the rest of the wedding guests.

Meg knew that the Comte Philippe was in the church, in fact, she had seen him in the first row, but she avoided his eyes especially. She had tried to make Raoul introduce them prior to the wedding, but he steadfastly affirmed that their introduction would be better made after the wedding day.

_God, help me._ She prayed silently, and wondered, if the wedding was this terrifying, how would she brave the reception?

"You're doing wonderfully, Meg." Christine whispered, walking next to her friend, as matron of honor.

Before Meg knew it, she was facing Raoul, and numbly repeating her vows to Father Clare, the same priest that had wed Erik and Christine. The look that Raoul gave the elderly priest was none too kind.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the presence of God and man to witness the joining of these two, Marguerite Giry and Viscomte Raoul de Chagny, in the bonds of holy matrimony. Viscomte Raoul de Chagny, will you take Marguerite Giry here present, for your lawful wife according to the rite of our Holy Mother, the Catholic Church?"

"I will." Raoul answered, his voice steady.

"Marguerite Giry, will you take Viscomte Raoul de Chagny here present, for your lawful husband according to the rite of our Holy Mother, the Catholic Church?"

Her voice wobbled a tiny bit. "I will."

"Now repeat after me. I, Raoul de Chagny."

"I, Raoul de Chagny."

"Take thee, Marguerite Giry."

"Take thee, Marguerite Giry."

"As my wife,"

"As my wife,"

"To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."

Meg breathed in unsteadily. "I, Marguerite Giry, take thee, Raoul de Chagny, as my husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."

Raoul reached for her hand and slid a golden band, along with the sapphire engagement ring, onto her finger.

"With this ring, I thee wed, and pledge to thee my troth, Marguerite Giry."

She slid a golden band onto his finger.

"With this ring, I thee wed, and pledge to thee my troth, Raoul de Chagny."

Father Clare lifted his hands and made the sign of the Cross over the couple.

"What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. I pronounce thee husband and wife. You may kiss your bride."

With calm hands, and dispassionate eyes, Raoul lifted Meg's veil, and touched his lips to hers.

Meg found herself recalling the kiss that Christine and Erik had shared at their wedding, and she fought back tears. Erik had kissed his bride passionately, as though he could hardly wait to take Christine home and begin their wedding night—begin their life. Raoul only brushed her lips with his own, a cold kiss, hardly the beginning she wished for this day—and this life.

They turned, hand in hand, and faced the small gathering.

Raoul smiled at her, a collected smile, and Meg felt a small burst of anger that he should be so calm, so poised, when she felt as though her nerves were shattering.

"I will see you this evening, my wife. You have much preparing to do."

And, as soon as they were outside the doors, they parted, Meg back to the Opera House to prepare for the reception, and Raoul to the estate de Chagny.

-

The reception was held in the ballroom of the de Chagny mansion. Meg arrived by means of a carriage sent by Raoul, and as she exited, soon joined by Christine and Madame, she saw from the corner of her eye the carriage containing her things, which the servants would be arranging upstairs all the while the reception was being held.

Meg was attired in a fashionable midnight blue watered silk, her hair swept up with diamond clips, a silver and diamond necklace about her neck, and diamonds hanging from her ears. Christine offset her beautifully in a daring dark red velvet, her hair, throat and ears jeweled similarly, but with rubies instead of diamonds. Madame Giry wore a black silk gown, lower cut than most in her wardrobe, and her ornaments were dainty pearls.

Raoul met Meg at the door, and gallantly took her arm, while Christine walked with Madame. The herald announced them as they entered the grand ballroom, Raoul allowing Christine and Madame Giry to enter first.

"Madame Christine Couturier and Madame Antoinette Giry!"

Raoul smiled comfortingly at Meg, and she took a shaky breath as the wide doors swung open for them.

"The Viscomte Raoul de Chagny and Viscomtess Marguerite de Chagny!"

Her breath left her all in a rush, both upon hearing her new title and married name, and at the sight of the ballroom.

For Meg, it was like entering a whole new world. Lights dazzled overhead from magnificent chandeliers, the tables glowed with candelabras, and a sumptuous feast was arrayed along one wall, food and drink to be partaken of at one's pleasure. A full orchestra played brightly from the pit, and a swirl of fine fabrics and glittering jewels adorning the elite of Parisian nobility swamped one's senses and filled the room with luxury far beyond anything little Meg had ever seen.

She edged closer to Christine the moment her friend caught up. "My God, Christine," she whispered, her eyes wide. "It's like another world."

"It is another world." Christine replied. Though Erik was by no means a part of the nobility, his burgeoning success as a composer was gaining them access to high Italian society. It, too, was like entering a different galaxy, as far removed from her life as a dancer, and even as a diva, as the east was from the west. "You'd do well to remove the awestruck expression," she hissed kindly but warningly. "They are like dogs, Meg. The quicker you stop looking like a frightened doe, the less likely they'll be to attack."

Meg nodded, and tried to smooth her expression.

"That's better. They love their own kind, Meg, so look confident, and carefree, as if you were born in silk and diamonds, and born to this life." Christine fell back then, leaving Meg alone with her new husband.

_Husband_. The word was as foreign as nobility to Meg. She felt an impostor already, a poor ballerina thrust into a world that was like nothing she had ever seen. Luxury was attractive from a far, but fairly smothering up close.

Raoul took her arm. "You must meet my brother now." His voice was far from cheerful, and Meg wondered why, though she bore the man an innate dislike for his treatment of Sorelli.

The man they approached was tall and clean-cut, handsome as the devil in his evening suit and silken cravat. He held a glass of wine elegantly in one hand, and was paying bored favor to a well-dressed young noblewoman who hung onto him like her salvation.

"Philippe." Raoul greeted curtly, and the man turned to face him, his blue eyes remaining entirely without expression.

"Brother!" He greeted Raoul enthusiastically, at odds with the impassivity of his face. "Who is this lovely young creature?"

Meg blushed, and went to curtsy, but Raoul tightened his grip on her arm. "Remember who you are!" he hissed sharply, and she halted immediately, flushing even further.

"This is my _wife_, the Viscomtess Marguerite de Chagny. Meg, this is my brother, Comte Philippe de Chagny."

His brother smiled, not entirely unkindly, but with a definite hint of malice. "Ah, I remember you. You were on the _corps de ballet_. You took La Sorelli's place as _prima_ when she became…indisposed, did you not?" He nodded at Meg's shocked expression. "Oh, yes, I remember you. Beauty such as yours never escapes my attention for long. My brother is a lucky man, though I hardly think you appropriate as a wife." He waved a hand at Raoul before the Viscomte could speak. "Oh, spare me your hypocrisies and your anger, little brother. I'll speak my mind as I always have. She's no more fit to be a Viscomtess than that chorus girl was. Speaking of which, I thought I saw her at the wedding this morning? Did I? Oh, yes, there she is. Perhaps I'll say hello. Good evening, brother." He nodded at Meg. "_Viscomtess_." He walked off casually in Christine's direction, leaving the blonde woman looking utterly shocked.

"Is it…true?" she whispered, staring first at Raoul, then at Meg. "Were you really a…a ballerina?"

Meg averted her eyes, a blush of shame staining her cheeks. Raoul gripped her hand and glared daggers at the young noblewoman. "She is my _wife_." He hissed the last word out sharply. "And she is a _Viscomtess_, which makes her rank somewhat above yours, Lady Arlene. I suggest you leave her be."

He swept his young bride onto the dance floor, and Meg looked miserably up at him. "Oh, Raoul, I'm so sorry."

"It is not your fault, Meg. They were bound to find out sometime or another. It makes no difference to me."

She knew it did not, and it soothed her somewhat. But nothing could salve the pain she felt each time his eyes drifted to Christine, eyes suffused with jealousy each time he saw her in the arms of this noble or that. Though, for Meg's sake, he did not dance with Christine even once that night, Meg knew that he would have liked nothing better, and there was no balm for that pain.

At last, the clock struck eleven, and he took Meg's hand. He bid farewell to his guests, and as they began to filter out, he led Meg towards the mahogany staircase. Meg cast a frightened glance back at Christine, and her friend smiled encouragingly.

_It will be alright._


	9. Ashes

**Chapter 9: Ashes**

Meg couldn't help the tightening ball of fear in her stomach as Raoul led her up the winding staircase to his bedchamber. He opened the door for her and let her inside, then shut it carefully and turned the lock, as though he feared she might escape. He leaned against the door, and just looked at her for a moment, taking in her wide blue eyes and shivering form.

"I'll be gentle, Meg," he promised, and opened his arms for her as she came to seek refuge in his embrace.

His hands smoothed down the back of her satin gown, fingers toying with the buttons, and Meg drew back from their embrace to look at his face.

His lips met hers suddenly, and Meg returned the kiss, doing her best to banish her fear. His tongue played at the seam of her lips, and she parted them briefly, remembering all that Christine had told her the night before.

His tongue slipped into her mouth, warm and seeking, and Meg recoiled slightly from the intimacy of the gesture. He felt her stiffen, but didn't stop, his fingers beginning to deftly undo the buttons on the back of her gown.

Meg forced herself to remain still, though she wanted to scream, to run, to slap his hands away from the closures of her dress and escape somewhere, anywhere.

_You are his wife now. He is your husband. This is his right._

She felt him free the last button, and the dress fell away from her shoulders to pool about her feet in a lake of midnight blue silk. She felt naked already, clothed in nothing but her corset, chemise and undergarments.

"Let me take my jewelry off." She surprised herself with how calm her voice sounded, as she turned away from him to remove the necklace, diamond clips, and earrings. She did it as much to steady her nerves as to remove the jewels, breathing deeply as she laid the precious items aside. Her hair fell down as she removed the clips one by one, entirely unaware of how seductive the simple actions were. She turned back to face Raoul, and looked at him, standing in his shirtsleeves and trousers, having divested himself of his jacket, waistcoat and cravat. Her eyes fell, unbidden, below his waist, and she blushed furiously when she saw the evidence of his desire.

Raoul smiled at her discomfiture, and pulled her close to him, running his hands through her silky hair. His hands fell to her corset, and he tugged the laces free, tossing the restrictive garment aside.

Meg's hands went nervously to his shirt buttons, undoing them one by one, fumbling in her nervousness. Eventually, she had the garment undone, and she tossed it onto a nearby chair, smoothing her hands down his chest.

Raoul shuddered a little at her touch, and Meg reached for the buttons of his trousers, shaking inwardly, but determined not to show it. He undid the ties of her chemise, and drew the garment off, followed by her drawers. He picked her nude body up then, and laid her on the bed, finishing the job of undoing his trousers himself.

Meg's eyes went wide at the sight of him, completely divested of clothing. She felt an unfamiliar jolt at the picture his naked body made, slender and muscular, with a broad, if boyish, chest, his fashionably long hair falling about his shoulders, and his narrow hips tapering into long legs. He lay on the bed next to her, touching her face for a moment, then rolled over to lean above her, his eyes raking over her body.

"You're beautiful, Meg," he whispered throatily. "Very, very beautiful." _But not Christine._

He forced thoughts of the dark-haired, voluptuous beauty from his mind, focusing only on the woman beneath him. She was beautiful, a princess sculpted from fine china, her delicate body spread out on the velvet coverlet, cornsilk hair falling across her face and shoulders.

Her eyes jerked back and forth between his face and his erection, her cheeks blushing furiously each time her gaze fell below his waist. She was obviously both aroused and discomfited by the sight, and he kissed her again, trying to soothe her nerves.

"It is not so frightening, Meg. Here, see?" He took her hand and guided it to him, gently wrapping her fingers about him. He groaned with the sensation as her hand tightened and moved fractionally.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Did I hurt you?"

"Oh, God, no." He let his hands rest on her body, moving slowly from her throat to her breasts, fingers trailing gently over her warming skin.

"Oh." She moaned softly, surprised at the small dart of pleasure when his hands found her breasts. "Raoul…" she whispered, moving under him and moaning again when his lips replaced his hands.

She was beautiful, no doubt, but when he sought for the fierce desire, the primal urges that had possessed him with Christine and even Giselle, he could not find them. He was aroused by her beauty and her willing body, but there was no passion. His hands moved lower, teasing, testing her, and he found that she was ready for him. He leaned over her, taking her mouth in another kiss as he pressed forwards, thrusting into her slowly.

Her virgin body resisted him strongly at first, and he kissed her again, hands moving over her breasts in an attempt to soothe her pain. Her muscles at long last gave in to him, and he slid forwards, possessing her entirely.

After such a long period of abstinence, his body trembled with the sensation of her, enveloping him, and when she arched up and sought his mouth for another kiss, he groaned loudly.

"Oh, God." He moaned, hands sliding roughly down her body and gripping her hips as her arms locked around his neck, pleasure and a tinge of fear in her eyes as he, gauging her reactions, began to thrust more swiftly.

He was nearly finished, and he looked down, seeing for a startling moment not Meg, but Christine lying beneath him. He focused his mind, detracting from his pleasure, but he was not about to cry out another woman's name on his wedding night, in bed with his wife!

"Meg…" he groaned, eyes closing as he increased his pace. He drove deeply into her suddenly, and she moaned a little, whether in pain or pleasure he was not sure. He groaned loudly as he climaxed, fingers digging into her hips. In a matter of moments he was finished, and he withdrew carefully, rolling over to lay next to Meg in the bed.

Meg lay silent for a moment, little flutters remaining in her body, ghosts of a pleasure she had barely experienced. Christine had spoken of a raging fire that spun sometimes out of control, a passion beyond imagining, lust and desire that Meg had only seen hints of onstage. But there had been no fire tonight.

Only ashes.

She looked for a moment as though she might fall asleep, and Raoul slid off of the bed and knotted a robe about him. Holding out another robe for Meg, he gestured for her to come with him. "Come, Meg. I'll show you to your room."

The shock on her face pained him—how could she not have known that noble husbands and wives often shared separate rooms? No doubt Christine had led her to believe otherwise. Of course she and Erik, being common, would share a bedroom.

Meg fought back tears as Raoul led her through the double doors into the adjoining bedroom.

"You have an entire suite of rooms here—bedroom, bathroom, and sitting room, at your disposal, as well as maids, who will come whenever you are in need." He gestured to a velvet bellpull. "When I require your company, you need only come in and exit through those doors." He gestured to the solid mahogany portal separating their bedrooms.

He touched her cheek briefly, and leaned down to give her a kiss, far warmer than any she had received previously. "Thank you, Meg."

Before she could reply, he had left the room.

A fresh nightrail was laid out on the bed, and Meg dressed hurriedly, then crawled under the covers. When all the lights were out, she buried her face in the pillow, and cried.

No, there was no fire tonight.

Only ashes.


	10. A New Way Of Life

Chapter 10: A New Way Of Life 

It was the first time since she was four years old that Meg could remember waking up without the sounds of a dozen other girls getting out of bed, without the first pale, cold rays of dawn tickling her eyes instead of the bright glare of the late morning sun, without the scramble for ballet shoes and the hurry downstairs for a quick breakfast before practice.

For the first time that she could remember, she faced a day in which she had absolutely no idea what she would occupy her time with. It felt—strange.

A maid entered the room, and drew aside the lacy canopy of her bed. "Morning, milady," she greeted, and Meg's eyes opened wider in surprise, realizing that the maid was addressing _her_.

_Of course. You are a Viscomtess now._

"Are you ready for your breakfast, milady?" the maid inquired, drawing the curtains aside and letting in the sunlight. "The Viscount is absent, so you may take your meal in your sitting room if you wish."

Meg nodded, her mind in a whirl. "I…I would like that," she managed, sitting up slowly.

The maid nodded, curtsied, and then left. Not more than a few seconds later, two more maids entered.

The taller, a plump, dark-haired girl, opened the doors of the armoire and drew out a fresh chemise and a lavender day-dress. The other assisted Meg in removing her nightrail, and together, the two maids had her laced into her corset, and dressed, in a matter of minutes.

The blonde maid helped Meg arrange her hair in a neat chignon, and then the two girls nodded. "This way to the sitting room, milady."

Meg took a seat at the writing desk, instantly thrilled to see that there was stationery and two fine quill pens in the drawer.

"Your breakfast will be here in a moment, milady." Meg nodded perfunctorily, and the two maids exited quickly.

-

When the croissants, jam, and pot of tea arrived, Meg thanked the matronly servant who had brought it, but she barely glanced at the food. She tapped the pen against the fine cherry wood of the writing desk, trying to begin her letter to Christine.

_Dear Christine,_

My first night with the Viscomte was not at all what I had expected.

It seemed so bland, so straightforward. The simple sentence, stark against the white paper, could not begin to express the depth of emotion Meg found herself drowning in. How, with mere scratches of a pen, could she explain this feeling of violation, the lingering memories of the Viscomte's hands on her that seemed almost tinged with impurity? How could she express her horror at discovering that she would not even share a bed with her new husband? And how, possibly, could Christine understand, through simple words, the hopelessness that Meg now felt, loving Raoul, and yet realizing, too late, that her new husband wished no more than a figurehead, to attend balls with him, to bear him children, to host his soirees, and to give him the last piece needed to complete the puzzle of ideal nobility.

He did not love her. He never would. And despite his honesty towards her, his clear declaration of his feelings—or lack thereof—Meg had not ceased to hope that on her wedding night, his true passions would show through.

She felt dirty, remembering his eyes on her naked body, his mouth and hands on her bare flesh, the feeling of him inside her. She had enjoyed it not because it had brought her any great pleasure, for indeed, it had been more painful than anything else, but because she had craved that joining, the merging of her flesh into the flesh of the man that she loved, and had prayed, sacrilegious as the prayer might have been, that the final act of matrimony would at last make him hers, and no longer Christine's.

But he remained as distant as ever, as aloof as always, a stranger to his own wife, with secrets and sorrows that she would perhaps never know.

She envisioned lying with him again, and felt a small moue of disgust. How could she give her body to him again, knowing that he would as soon lie with a whore as with her, if she were not the most available, the most proper flesh available? She felt that she could not, but she knew she must, as his wife.

She crumpled up the fine paper and began again, on a fresh sheet.

_Dear Christine,_

_My heart is so full of emotions, I scarcely know where to begin. Nothing could have prepared me for the shock of my first night with the Viscomte. I had expected all the things you had told me—pain, at first, and awkwardness, but finally, passion, and yes, love._

_The pain and the awkwardness were there, to be sure, and curiosity, on my part. But passion there was none, and certainly no love. It was over quickly, but the worst part was yet to come. When he was finished, he lay there for a moment, and then he got up and said that he would show me to my room._

_I did not know that nobility shared separate rooms. It still hurts to think of it, that, propriety or no, he did not wish me to share a bed with him. I am more alone now than I was prior to my marriage. It is a loveless marriage, to be sure, Christine, and though I suppose I had my suspicions, I expected at least affection from him. I care for him dearly, but he cares nothing at all for me. I am here, and I am grateful, but I cannot help but wish for that which I can now never have—a man who loves and cherishes me, as you have. We cannot have all that we desire, and I am, truly, grateful for the blessings I have been given._

_It is not so bad, I suppose. In time, perhaps I will grow accustomed to it. We may even become friends, and that would be a truly wonderful thing. But in my dreams, I must admit, I will wish still for a man such as you have, and envision passion and love which I will never know._

_Write soon, Christine, and tell me how things are there._

_Love,_

_Meg._

_P.S. I have hung Erik's watercolor in my sitting room, where Raoul is unlikely to see it. The cathedral is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, tell him that I like it very much indeed, and no wedding present could have been better._

Meg continued smiling bravely as she folded the paper and slid it inside a linen envelope, and then laid it on the silver tray to be taken out with her untouched breakfast.

Then she laid her head on the desk, and cried.

-

Christine could not help the tears that slid down her cheeks upon reading Meg's letter. "Oh, Meg," she whispered, touching the smeared ink with one finger. "Dear, dear Meg."

"What is wrong, my love?"

Erik reached over her shoulder and plucked the letter from Christine's limp fingertips. A small growling noise arose in his throat as he reached the end, and he flung the missive back down on the desk.

"Damn nobility!" he shouted, clenching his hands into fists. "How could the boy do such a thing? Why, even with you, he was nothing if not gentle, and yes, even loving! How could he treat her so?"

"He does not love her." Christine replied quietly, wrapping her arms about her. "And so, it is as you feared, Erik. She is trapped in a marriage that will bring her nothing but misery. And the worst of it is, we could have done nothing to prevent it, and even if we could have, she is better off there. She would have never found anything better."

"Perhaps a man who would love her."

"Doubtful. Few look past the stigma of the opera house, Erik."

He wrapped her in his arms as she stood, his long fingers caressing her cheek gently. "Not all are as lucky as we, hm?"

"I am lucky to have you, Erik." Christine pressed a kiss to his lips, and gasped as he deepened the kiss, pressing her back towards the bed.

"Very, very lucky." He smiled, and nimbly reached for the laces of her gown.

-

The dining room was quiet as the Viscomte and Viscomtess ate their evening meal, the shadows thrown by the firelight the only movement, the clinking of silverware the only sound.

"You will come to me tonight, Meg." It was not a question, but a statement, the irrefutable direction of a noble to his wife.

Meg nodded, her lip trembling slightly at the notion.

"Do you fear me, Meg?" The question was asked so gently that she looked up, startled.

"No, my lord!" she exclaimed, then looked down at her plate. "And…yes."

"Why, Meg? And what is this 'my lord'? Have I not instructed you to call me by my Christian name?"

"You have instructed me to do a great many things, my…Raoul."

"Why do you fear me, Meg?"

_Because you do not love me._

"Because you are a man, Raoul, and men are to be feared."

-

He had seen the look in her eyes before.

_The woman standing in front of him had been with a hundred men, at least. Perhaps two hundred. There was no knowing. She had been with him a dozen times, and yet, there was a look that bordered fear in her eyes tonight. _

_When he drew close to her, her eyes fluttered closed, and something within him twisted at the knowledge that she was only playacting, just as she did with every other man. Somehow…he wanted more._

_He reached to run his fingers through her hair, and with a sudden, decisive movement, she undid the tie that held her silk dressing gown. She turned to face him, swaying seductively in the firelight, her nude body a glory of feminine curves and silky, glowing skin._

_The fear had not left her eyes as she approached him, but for the first time, she seemed alive, brimming with passion untapped, and he moved towards her eagerly, his hands roaming over her heated flesh with an urgency that surprised him. God, she was soft, and glorious, her faint moans like the sweetest music as he picked her up and fairly threw her onto the bed, ripping his clothes off in an agonized need to be as naked as she, to feel her flesh pressing against his, to be inside of her._

_Her hair spread about her, dark and tangled, like a wild thing, her nails digging into his back, the cords of her throat standing out as she struggled to repress her desire. He came alive at her touch, he had forgotten what it meant to be desired, to be wanted by a woman._

_The fear never left her eyes as he drove into her with one motion, though it was blurred by desire, it remained as he thrust into her over and over again, his mouth and hands feasting on her body, the fires of their mingled passion rising higher and hotter, their moans filling the room. And then, through the fog of passion, her hands, beautiful, slender, delicate hands, came up to touch his face, and she whispered, her voice seductive and husky with desire: "Say my name, Raoul."_

_He knew her name, he knew it! But as he focused his passion-blurred vision, and slowed his desperate thrusting enough to speak, he felt her tighten around him, felt her hands tangle in his hair, saw her head thrown back and her eyes wide with pleasure as he moved within her, and he cried out through a haze of ecstasy: "Christine!"_

_And he saw the fear dissipate, but with it went every conceivable emotion, and she went limp beneath him, her straining, pleasured body completely unaroused, except for the remnants of their former passion, and he was left to finish alone, and the final pleasure, when it came, was cold and hollow despite its strength._

"Raoul?"

He came back to earth with a start, and saw Meg looking at him quizzically.

"Raoul, are you alright?"

"Yes…yes, of course."

He approached her slowly, and when they were lying on the bed, and he began the motions of the night before, he saw the fear disappear from her eyes. But there had never been passion or desire in her eyes, only resignation to the duties that a wife must perform. And now, she lay still and motionless beneath him, waiting only for him to be finished so that she might go, alone, to her bed.

And when his final pleasure came, it was cold and hollow.

-

When it was all finished, Meg lay in her bed, trying to ignore the lingering soreness where Raoul had been only minutes before, and she buried her face in her pillow, and cried.

She cried until she fell asleep, and then she dreamed. In her dreams she was visited by a faceless man who whispered sweet things in her ear, who touched her body in ways that she had never even thought of, and who kindled a fire in her until at last, together, he showed her what happened when fires raged out of control.


	11. The Demons Of The Night

**A/N:**

**Apologies for the length of time in updating--Christmas holidays and all of that.**

**Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate! **

**-**

**Chapter 11: The Demons Of The Night**

Meg quickly found that, asides from the endless proprieties, life as a Viscomtess was not nearly so trying as she had expected. True, she had to accustom herself to a way of life that insisted she was entirely helpless, and unable to do so much as dress herself!—she, who had been doing quite well for herself since eleven years old.

And, of course, every two or three days, sometimes more often, Raoul would look at her in a certain way across the supper table, or he would pointedly gaze in her direction when he excused himself for the night, and she knew that he would require her presence in his bed.

It pained her greatly, to realize that she knew her husband's expressions so well, that she could deduce from the way he looked at her whether he desired her that night, and yet be so far separated from him as to hardly converse when not in the company of others. Even their couplings were cold and silent; his fevered pace and muffled groans met with steely silence and endurance by her.

She garnered fleeting pleasure from these meetings, for, loveless as their encounters were, at least on his side, Raoul _was_ a considerate lover. He took time to arouse her body, and touch her both gently and tantalizingly, and she could not help but respond to him. But just when she began to feel the flickering fire, just when she thought that their coupling—for one could not call it lovemaking—would erupt in passionate flame, he would be finished, and roll away from her, kiss her on the lips with a muffled "good-night" and she knew then that she was dismissed.

She would often not see him until supper, for contrary to the beliefs held by the ignorant middle and lower-class, the nobility was not always idle. Raoul was often gone to business meetings, and overseeing the affairs of the many de Chagny estates, a task that fell to him as the industrious member of the de Chagny family, not given to wine and women as his elder brother was. Meg got the impression quite often that Philippe gave little thought to the duties of his position, only the carnal benefits garnered thereby.

She, on the other hand, was quite often idle. She passed the time in writing letters to Christine, and penning short notes to her few close companions in the _corps_. Embroidery was not something she had ever learned, nor the pianoforte, or drawing, all accomplishments of born ladies, which she was not. Instead, she had found her way into the mansion's library, and therein entertained herself, all the while longing for an empty hardwood floor, and a pair of ballet shoes.

It was a request that she found herself wishing quite often that she might present to Raoul, but she knew instinctively that it would be denied. A nobleman's wife did not pass her time with such things as dancing. She should be turning her mind to learning more useful talents such as hosting balls and parties, entertaining nobility, and managing the servants, among other things.

It was, to her great consternation, only two weeks into their marriage when Raoul announced, over supper, that the de Chagny mansion would be holding a ball in three weeks.

"I'll leave the preparations to you, my dear," he said congenially over veal. "I'm sure you will do a wonderful job."

Meg was left speechless.

-

Surprisingly, the ball went very well. The noblewomen flocked around Meg as if she were an expensive new piece of the décor, an idea that Meg felt entirely appropriate, considering her elaborate violet silk ballgown.

She greeted and curtsied, welcomed and was introduced, danced with her husband, and played perfectly the role of the doting wife and born Viscomtess.

It was all a ruse. Inside, her emotions were roiling, a terrible feeling of being far outside her element warring with a desperate longing to fit in, to _belong_ with these overdressed, boorish people, and at the same time, a terrible gladness that she was not born to their class, that she retained character, even if she came from what these people would consider little better than a gutter. And that thought brought back a very real fear that they would see through her, peel away the shiny silk and the expensive powder, and see the frightened little ballerina, desperately in love with a man who cared not a whit for her, and laugh her straight out of the fine mansion that had become her home…and her prison.

Meg was never more grateful for an evening to end.

-

"You did very well, my dear."

He must be pleased with her, Meg thought, for he continued to lie beside her, instead of rolling away from her, the silent signal that she was to return to her own chambers. His hand slid down to interlock with hers, thumb stroking the soft, pale skin. He was very quiet for a moment.

"I don't pretend to understand how hard this must be for you, Meg," he murmured softly, turning his head to look at her. "You've entered a world you know nothing about, with no one to help you, and no one here who loves you. You must endure my touch night after night, and you do so without complaint. You've given me everything, Meg, your trust, your body, I daresay even your love. You've become my wife, and given me the last thing I needed to become a truly respectable member of the nobility. What can I possibly give you in return?"

_Your love,_ she wanted to answer. _Let me sleep a night in your arms. Make love to me. Give me what is due me as your wife_.

But she could say none of these things to him. Instead, she voiced the only other desire she had thought of in the past few weeks.

"Let me dance again, Raoul. Let me have the ballroom for an hour or two every day to dance in."

His brow instantly creased. "God, Marguerite, can you not be like other noblewomen and ask for some ridiculously high-priced piece of jewelry or a new dress? Why must you always ask for what I cannot give you?"

"I don't need jewelry or dresses. Why is this so hard, Raoul?"

"Because if someone were to see you, I would be the talk of the town! To let my wife _dance_, like a common ballerina!"

"Not so long ago, I was a common ballerina!"

She hadn't meant to yell. Whatever kindness had been in his eyes was gone now. "Absolutely not." His voice was hard.

She fought to keep the tears from her voice. "Please, Raoul," she whispered. "I miss it so much."

"That is my final word on the subject." He rolled away from her. "I think it's time you went to bed."

She tried to hide her tears as she slid slowly from beneath the covers, wrapped her silk robe around her naked body, and fairly fled from the room.

-

She lay awake for what seemed like an eternity, wanting sleep, desiring sleep, but sleep would not come. Her eyes remained firmly fixed open, demons of a thousand natures tormenting her as she helplessly relived every moment since she had first come to the estate de Chagny.

What nightmare was she living? What had possessed her to leave everything that was familiar and dear to her and enter a world that she was never meant to be in?

"You are a fool, Marguerite Giry," she told herself aloud, her voice harsh in the silent night. "A fool!"

A fool of the worst kind, to believe that a man who had loved and been jilted by her closest friend could ever, ever love _her_. She must be a constant reminder to him of Christine. Perhaps he even imagined that she was Christine in the dark, when he…

She cut off the thought as one too painful to comprehend. He would never see Christine's lush curves in her petite, frail frame, Christine's fiery eyes and dark locks in her pale blue eyes and thin, cornsilk hair. Men would have killed to have her, but the one man who did compared her to a woman to whom she would never measure up.

The night closed in around her, thick, silent, and suffocating.

A scream rent it.

_"Giselle!"_ The voice was a man's, shattered and full of pain. "_Giselle! Giselle! Giselle!"_ It was Raoul's voice, coming from the next room, ragged with screaming, desperate. Meg leapt from her bed as though scalded, her feet tangling in the sheets. She fell to the floor, untangled herself, leapt up and darted through the door to see her husband writhing on his bed, eyes scrunched tightly shut, tears streaming down his face. His hands were veritable claws, tangled in the covers, and Meg knew that he was caught in the grip of an awful nightmare.

"Giselle!" he cried again and again, the same unfamiliar name. "Don't…don't…_kill her_!" He stopped writhing, and his ragged voice became a hoarse, whimpering moan. "Giselllleee…"

Meg leapt back. _Kill her…_ What sort of event was her husband reliving? Whose death had he witnessed?

Not daring to wake him, she backed away, now that he seemed to have returned to a semi-peaceful sleep, though his breathing was still ragged.

She felt a sudden urge to wipe the sweat away from his brow, to take his hand and kiss him gently, but she resisted it, having no idea how he might react. Surely not with pleasure…

She returned to her own room, confused and distraught, and fell asleep finally, escaping her own demons—demons that haunted her in daylight, while Raoul's visited him at night.


End file.
